


my head could be a vessel for your own mind

by reidingrainbow



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:20:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29393283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reidingrainbow/pseuds/reidingrainbow
Summary: When George gets uncomfortable, he runs.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 263





	my head could be a vessel for your own mind

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by "uncomfortable" by chase atlantic.
> 
> i hope you enjoy :)

When George gets uncomfortable, he runs.

Dream learns this the hard way. They’ve lived together for a few months, renting out a house in Orlando for the three of them. It’s nicely sized, a bedroom for each of them, two bathrooms, two stories. Sapnap helped him pick it out, when he came down a year before George could join them. It’s stable, nice, and fun living with his best friends. Dream enjoys it.

But it’s hard. He thinks George felt a bit out of place, coming in late. He and Sapnap already had a schedule, a messy but secure routine, and they had to adjust quite a bit for him. George hates being woken up, so Dream has to stay extra quiet on days he gets up early. George doesn’t like heavy scents, they burn his eyes, so Dream removes all his wallflowers and buys some airy Febreeze to use instead. George isn't a big lover of steak, so on days where Sapnap is feeling ravenous, Dream has to cook something extra, just for him.

It’s not like he minds. He would do anything for George. Sapnap calls him a world-class simp, but he brushes it off. Maybe he’s right. Maybe he’s onto something with that one.

Because honestly, things have changed the past few weeks. The air around them has become thick, heavy in an exhaustingly blinding way. There are times when George gets close to him, lets Dream press up against him or scoot his chair closer to the boy’s when he edits. Sometimes, George will tell him small things about his past, about England, about his family, and Dream will absorb it all, taking each tiny bit of information and storing it away. Days like that are light, fog lifts from it’s encompassing state, and he can see the light that collects in George’s eyes, the soft freckles that grace his cheeks.

Most of their days, however, are spent in this cumbersome state, where George will avoid him all together. George lets go just to take it all back, and it sends Dream into a whiplashed frenzy, one where he feels like he’s harmed their relationship simply by existing. Maybe he’s too eager to learn, to listen. Maybe it’s too obvious, how deep his affection runs. George will stay away from him, hide in his room to steer clear of conversation. It stings.

Dream is in the living room, a random show playing on the television in the background while he scrolls through his phone. Sapnap went to the store a half hour ago. George is in his room.

Or, maybe he’s not. Dream feels a presence enter the room, sit down next to him. A small voice speaks, “Dream.”

He looks up, meets golden embers and iridescent skin, “What’s up? I haven’t seen you all day.”

“Don’t know,” George shrugs, looks down to avoid the eye contact Dream so desperately tries to hold. “Scoot over.”

He moves to the end of the couch and George follows, presses up against his side, thigh touching thigh. Dream looks down at him, his arm itching to reach around him and pull him closer, to feel all his body weight and warmth. George leans back against the couch cushions, hums softly, “I think I’m homesick.”

Dream turns his body a bit, opens himself up for the incoming words, “Want to talk about it?”

“I mean, not particularly,” George says, turns his head finally to look directly in Dream’s eyes. “I just wanted to be near you for a while.”

And that makes Dream’s heart go overboard. A wave crashes over him, dizziness and euphoria and incessant pining soak him, drown him like the sandy tide. He’s unprepared, always unprepared for George. He’s flushed, “O-Oh, okay. I can do that.”

George smiles at him softly before turning his attention to the TV. Dream is afraid to move, afraid to breathe next to him, doesn’t want to break the moment of silence that transcends over them. It’s calm but unnerving, like waiting for something that will never arrive, and Dream is slowly tortured as he watches George’s chest rise and fall.

And then the silence breaks, dissolves into static. George utters softly, “My mum… She used to make this dish when I was feeling out of sorts. Bangers and Mash. I miss it.”

“Are you feeling down?” Dream asks, leans forward a bit. George nods, tries to curl inward on himself, but Dream doesn’t let him. He grabs the other by the wrist, runs his thumb along the inside as he speaks, “George-”

“No,” George pulls his hand back, acts like he’s been burned. _Does Dream’s touch really hurt that much?_ “M’Fine, Dream. It’s fine.”

“Talk to me,” Dream pleads, begs for him to just give an inch. Just a small amount gets Dream hooked, gets him high. He wants more, wants it all. He’ll take a mile.

But George just stands up, smoothes out his hoodie. He gives Dream a look of apprehension, a deep fear only Dream can see swirls in his irises as he says, “Thanks for letting me sit with you. I’ll see you at dinner.”

Before Dream can say anything else, George walks away.

It hurts.

For dinner, they have Bangers and Mash.

George just stares.

\---

The closer they get, the further he pulls away.

Dream knows, he knows George isn’t good with expressing his emotions. Sometimes, though, it seems like George doesn't feel a thing, like he's void of the things around him, null to sensation.

And he wants to help, so very badly. He wants George to tell him things, tell him the things that bother him or the things that make him sad. After knowing George all this time, he feels like he doesn’t really know the slightest about it, about his depth or his hidden valleys or rocky mountains. George is a flat surface to Dream, and Dream wants to dent him, to expose the holes and imperfections behind paint and glass, just to fix him up again.

He walks up the stairs and to the right, where George’s room is. It’s late, Sapnap is already passed out in his own room, but he’s not tired. He’s worried, and worry keeps him awake. It jitters through him, crawls up his spine and into his overburdened brain.

The door is slightly ajar and he pushes it open. It’s dark, the only light source being Selene, who shines her sparkly silver through George’s open curtains. George is laying on his bed, unmoving but obviously awake. He hasn't noticed Dream’s appearance, hasn’t looked down from where he stares at the ceiling absentmindedly.

Dream approaches slowly so as to not scare him off, but it doesn't work for long. The hardwood creaks beneath his feet and George jolts, swiftly looks up at him. “What are you doing?”

Dream stands still, doesn’t know what to say, “I-uh...I was just checking on you?”

“Why?” The question rings out into the dark. George is still looking at him quizzically, mysteriously, “I told you the other day that I’m fine.”

“Is that why you're staring at your ceiling in the dark?” Dream questions. He slides onto the bed, hands touching the soft quilt that covers George’s body, hangs off the edges.

“I...,” George is frozen, Dream can tell that he’s caught off guard, can't back himself out of the hole that has been dug underneath him. He’s six feet below, a dead man walking, running, “It’s nothing-”

Dream cuts him off with worried eyes, a hushed but imploring tone, “George, you don't have to lie to me. Let me help.”

“Stop,” George practically hisses. “Stop, Dream.”

“No, George,” Dream stays resilient, steel in eye contact and stubbornness. “I want to help.”

“You know how you can help, Dream? You stop asking me how I am and you stop babying me,” George says, sitting up a bit so they’re level, so their eyes are in line. Dream’s heart is palpitating under the pressure, under the anger that radiates off of the other. “Just stop. You’re not helping me when you do this. You make it worse.”

And then his heart drops all together. He feels sick, feels like a burden and a waste of space, feels like a murderer for suffocating George so much. Why didn't he say anything, why didn't he tell him sooner? He’s embarrassed, embarrassed and confused.

He exhales after a moment, “George. I...I didn't know-”

George’s face softens, “I didn't mean to raise my voice. I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m the one that should be sorry,” Dream shakes his head. “I just...I’m just worried about you. I’m always worried about you.”

“You don't need to be,” George says softly. He reaches up, cups Dream’s face lightly in his palm. Dream feels like he can breathe again, the weight of the hand comforting and warm. George glows in the light, his eyes fond. Dream leans into the touch, wants to feel him forever.

They stare at each other for a moment, lost in each other. George’s hair is a mess, curls slightly at the ends and falls over his face slightly, and his sweatshirt is wrinkled, lifted a bit so that Dream can see the smooth skin of his stomach. It’s a spell, a curse, one that Dream can't seem to break. He doesn't want to. He’s too enraptured.

Finally, George pulls his hand away, whispers, “You look tired.”

“I am,” Dream replies, smiles softly.

“Do you want to sleep here?” George asks, so quiet Dream thinks he misheard.

Dream raises his eyebrows, mouth opens a bit, “H-Here? With you? Are you sure?”

“Mhm,” George nods. Dream watches as he sinks back into his bed, presses his head into his pillow. He looks at Dream expectantly, hopefully. Dream takes a deep breath and crawls closer to him, lifts up the blanket and slips underneath. He can feel heat, so much heat.

George turns his body to face Dream, curls into him. Dream lifts his arm up and George scoots closer, rests his head on Dream’s chest, folds his arms over his body. He leans down and kisses the top of George’s head, soft and sweet.

“Goodnight, George.”

George hums, “Goodnight, Dream.”

\---

When he wakes up, George is gone.

He’s drowsy, haze of sleep deprivation clouds his eyes, echoes in his mind, but he pulls himself out of bed. It’s cold, juxtaposes the warmth he felt last night, falling asleep in George’s arms.

He drags himself downstairs. Sapnap is standing in the kitchen, humming a tune and flipping pancakes on the stove. He looks around; The living room is untouched, the downstairs bathroom is empty. _Where is George? Where is he?_

He enters the kitchen, clears his throat, “Have you seen George?”

Sapnap doesn’t bother looking up, “Good morning to you too.”

“Sapnap,” Dream steps closer, puts his hands on the counter.

Sapnap turns, battered spatula in hand, “No, I haven't seen him. Is he even awake?”

“He’s not in bed. I’d know-” Dream cuts himself off, realizing the exposure he just gave away, but of course Sapnap understands immediately. He’s gonna regret that later.

He gets a smirk, a wide eyed look, and then Sapnap speaks, leaves nothing to imagination, “You guys are gross.”

“We didn't do anything,” Dream defends, crosses his arms over his chest. “Nothing happened.”

Sapnap takes that and runs with it, “Did you want something to happen?”

And Dream hates him, hates how he seems to know every thought, every past event, every current feeling he has. Is he see-through? Sapnap is as introspective as they come, the perfect balance of nosey and incurious. He’s known Sapnap for so long, it’s like the boy knows him more than he knows himself. It’s endearing and scary, wrapped into one.

So Dream just looks at him. Sapnap hums, “That’s what I thought.”

“Sapnap,” Dream says again, says with desperation. “I don't know what to do. I don't know where he is.”

“He probably went out. He’s a big boy. He can handle himself,” Sapnap shrugs, turning back to the stove to take more pancakes off the sizzling pan. Dream watches as he licks his lips, “As for the other part, why don't you just talk to him?”

“You don't think I’ve tried that?” Dream huffs. “He won't open up to me.”

Sapnap turns his head, blue eyes stern but sad. He gets a look of remorse, the kind of look that tells him nothing and everything simultaneously. Sapnap speaks slowly, “You know George, Dream, better than anyone. He trusts you and he’ll come to you eventually. Give it some time.”

Time.

Dream doesn't know if he can wait much longer.

\---

George doesn’t come home till late in the evening. Dream is pissed.

He’s on his computer, editing a video he desperately needs to release, when he hears the door open and close across the hall. The hairs on his neck stand up, anger takes a hold of him. He stands, pushes his desk chair in, and walks to George’s room.

_So much for time._

He pushes the door open, no longer caring for personal space. George looks at him in shock, surprise, a deer caught in the headlights of frustration and rage. “Where were you?”

George scoffs, “None of your business. Knock next time.”

“You left me,” Dream says. He doesn't care anymore, needs to get it out. “You left me this morning and went off all day and didn't even have the decency to text me that you were okay. You owe me a fucking explanation.”

George steps back, rolls his eyes, “I owe you nothing.”

Dream steps forward, into the bubble between them, crowds the shorter boy's space until George is practically against the wall, blocked from any escape. He hisses, “Where the hell were you?”

“Nowhere!” George says. He tries to push Dream back, puts his hands on his chest, but Dream grabs his wrists, “Dream! Let go!”

“Fucking talk to me!” Dream yells instead, squeezes tighter. He can feel George’s quick heartbeat pulsating on his fingertips. He revels in it.

George looks up at him, tries to pull his hands away, “There’s nothing to talk about!”

“You’re a liar,” Dream shouts.

“And you’re a jerk,” George says in return.

And then suddenly, Dream’s lips are on George’s, hot and heavy and powerful. It knocks the wind out of Dream, how fast they collide, the precision in which they come together. Dream backs George up against the wall, presses him there by the wrists as they move together, as they melt into one another. George pants into his mouth and Dream swallows every delicate and wanting sound, takes the opportunity to lick into his mouth, to study him intimately.

_So much for talking._

He lets go of George’s wrists in exchange for gripping his waist in one hand, his neck in the other. He pushes his head up, runs his fingers down George’s throat as they kiss and kiss and kiss until they’re breathless, until Dream’s lungs are on fire. He pulls away, a trail of saliva follows him, and before George can get another word in, Dream is diving in again, taking what he wants.

He slides his hands down George’s body to the back of his thighs, picks the boy up against the wall. George throws his arms around Dream’s neck, curls his finger in his hair, tugs slightly. Their mouths are magnets, opposite fields attracting each other again and again, never pulling apart for long.

Dream carries him to the bed, throws him down, crawls on top of him. The setting sun highlights the soft angles of George’s cheeks, pools in the honey of his foggy gaze. His lips are red and puffy, his hair fluffed up, and Dream looks down at him in awe, in worship, “Do you want this?”

“Yes,” George says, practically whines. “Dream. Take it. Take everything.”

So Dream does. Dream takes it all, takes everything he didn't know he could have. He falls, falls deeper than he ever thought he could as they move together, build each other up just to take each other apart.

He takes his mile. He takes it and runs.

\---

He wakes up alone.

He lays there for a moment, stares at the ceiling. He gets the appeal now.

He grabs his clothes off the floor, slips his sweatpants and shirt on and walks out of the room. He has no time to waste; He needs to find George.

Sapnap is sitting in the living room, nibbling on a piece of toast and watching the TV. When Dream enters the room, he looks up, narrows his eyes, “You’re loud. You do know I live here, right?”

Dream ignores him, grabs his car keys off the counter. He looks back, “Where is he?”

“Why do you think I know?” Sapnap asks.

Dream gives him a stare, a representation that he’s no longer playing around, “I know you know. Tell me, now.”

Sapnap sets the plate on his lap on the couch next to him, wipes his hands on his pants before speaking, “The playground. Please be gentle, Dream. Let him talk.”

“I will,” Dream says, and then he’s off, rushing out the front door and to the garage. He doesn't think he’s ever moved this fast in his life, but he doesn't care about that now. The only thing he cares about is getting to George.

He gets in his car.

He drives.

\---

The playground is small, a few miles from his house.

It’s one of the first places he took George when he moved here, when he wanted to go outside and be somewhere peaceful. Dream should’ve known, should've guessed this is where he’d be hiding.

He gets out of his car and walks. It’s empty here, deserted. There’s a large oak tree in the distance, hanging over a crystal lake. It’s a painting, a mosaic of splotchy colors and elegant strokes, and Dream spots George’s silhouette in the middle of it all.

He approaches. George looks over the water, knees tucked into his chest. Dream sits next to him, digs his palms into the grass as he sinks into the dirt.

He waits, waits for George to speak. It’s silent for a long time, the background filled with birds chirping and cars speeding past. He thinks George might never talk, might just sit here in oppressive solitude until Dream gives up and goes home.

And then he talks, his voice filling Dream’s ears, “It’s nice out here.”

“It is,” Dream replies. He looks at George. His side profile is radiant. “Is this where you’ve been coming?”

George nods, finally looks at Dream, “I know you’re in love with me.”

Dream’s breath catches in his throat, “I...I am.”

George looks forward again. His fingers twirl blades of grass softly, delicately, as he speaks, “I don't know how to do this.”

“Do what?” Dream asks, although he already knows the answer.

George gulps, reignites the eye contact, “Love you. I don't know how to love you.”

Dream takes a moment to absorb it all, the feeling of happiness he gets from that confession, the sadness he feels from the lack of reciprocity. It stings, stings his heart and his lungs. It burns in his eyes, burns in his brain.

“Is this why you’ve been running from me? Why you didn't want to talk to me?” He decides to ask.

George nods again, “I’m uncomfortable, Dream. I don't know how to deal with this, all these emotions I’m feeling. I’m overwhelmed and uncomfortable and every time you ask me if I’m okay, it only makes me feel more guilty. And then last night…”

He trails off. Dream reaches between them, interlocks their pinkies softly. It’s a sign, a sign that he’s not mad, that he understands, “George. You could've told me all of this. I would’ve listened.”

“I know,” George smiles, but it’s a small smile, a sad smile. “My default is to run. I’m sorry for that.”

“I love you, George. I’ve loved you for a long time, and I’ll love you for the rest of my life, probably,” Dream says honestly, pours out everything he’s wanted to say for both of them to see. “And it’s okay if you can't give me that back right now, because I’d rather have you like this than not have you at all.”

George is teary-eyed, and Dream reaches forward, wipes the salty stains away. “You deserve more than this.”

“I don't want anything else,” Dream sighs, cups his cheek softly. “I want you. Only you.”

“I want you, too,” George sniffles. “I just don't know how to get there.”

Dream intertwines their hands then, looks at him with infatuation, “Let me help you, then. Don't run away. Let me teach you.”

And George inhales shakily, licks his swollen lips, “Okay. Teach me.”

Dream leans down and kisses him gingerly, slowly. It’s fulfilling in the most magical way, when George smiles against his lips, kisses him back just as passionately.

Dream holds him.

George stays.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time writing dnf !! really enjoyed every moment of creating this.
> 
> find me on twitter: @jilchamp


End file.
